


until i run out of ink and lead

by pastelpinks



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Comfort, Drabble, Idol-Verse, Insecurities, M/M, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:09:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelpinks/pseuds/pastelpinks
Summary: His world was filled with nothing but ink and lead blotted notebooks, defective pens and pencils dull and unsharpened to its core. For years he took it upon himself to store a capped bottle within the confines of his heart, to keep it there, never to be opened.





	until i run out of ink and lead

**Author's Note:**

> this came out of nowhere after i read [this](https://twitter.com/fuyubi/status/970024248231182338) account from svt's School of Lock and i should’ve been writing my thesis but wow #priorities hahahuhu

His world was filled with nothing but ink and lead blotted notebooks, defective pens and pencils dull and unsharpened to its core. For years he took it upon himself to store a capped bottle within the confines of his heart, to keep it there, never to be opened.

But a bottle was bound to be filled. And burst it will once its maximum capacity had been tapped.

He wrote and wrote, day after day, night after night. In print he wrote what he could not say and in script he wrote what he thought only he could feel. He would say nothing but feel everything and them he would write about. Feelings.

Tightly, in his calloused fingers, he held his pen or pencil, whichever he blindly reached for first, it did not matter. For months he endured and written words were his only companion, his notebook his only confidant.

He had a semblance of a wallflower. Lone and solitary. But he wrote of satire things and watched burlesque scenes he wished he could be a part of unfold before him from a short distance. He wondered about broken dreams and wrote about them too. He dreamt of an ocean of lights and deafening cheers. To look at them from afar was one thing but to witness it from within an arm's length would be fascinating. He thinks to himself. He wakes up and narrates his dream in his notebook before he forgets.

  


I will never be good enough.

  


He writes in script one day, but the words do not come from his own throat nor from his own brain. It comes from a body smaller than his and from a heart more fragile than anyone else's in the galaxy. He pauses. Tapping the tip of his pen on the surface of the table thrice and attempts to create three streaks on the edge of the page he was writing on but to no avail. His eyebrows knit. His pen has run out of ink.

  


I don't think I can amount to anything.

  


He tries again this time with a pencil. But from pressure, the tip breaks and the lead rolls from the table down to the floor. He watches it roll further away from his feet that were planted flat on the wooden ground.

All this time he has written. Never bothering to open his mouth or his heart. Never uncapping the bottle taking refuge in it. But a bottle was bound to be filled, a pen to run out of ink, a pencil to run out of lead and a notebook to run out of pages.

He takes his notebook in his calloused hands and skims through all the print and the scripts he has sometimes penned, sometimes penciled. He puts his notebook down on the table, closing it gently and pressing firmly as soon as he feels the bottle in his heart burst open on its own.

All this time he has written. Never spoken.

But the same words he wrote, he will say. The same dreams he dreamt, he will chase. And the same person he had always been, he will show.

He sees them sitting so small in the corner of a room filled with mirrors. Legs bent on the knees, arms folded on top of them and face hidden in the small sanctuary it has created. He takes a seat beside them and waits in silence until they feel his presence. Until he locks eyes with them and tells them a story of a boy whose world was once filled with nothing but ink and lead blotted notebooks, defective pens and pencils dull and unsharpened to its core until another boy came along and spoke to him about his own world of mirrors, loud music blasting in their ears, torn down sneakers and unwavering love for movement.

He doesn't write on his notebook anymore but he keeps it somewhere only he knows, in case he'd need it in the future (he won't). And he places a new bottle in his heart, empty and uncapped but this time he lets them fill it up to the brim with brand new words and every time he returns these words to them, the bottle empties itself again, ready to be filled once more and unlike his notebook, it is a cycle that knows no end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> update: i just recently read a translated fanacc from one of their recent fansigns about a fan asking ww for some advice bc she was feeling burnt out atm and ww told her how he used to write a diary abt everything that stressed him out and then burning it soon after he felt that he wanted to let go of all the stress filled words he wrote in there... 2016 kind of flashed back into my brain and how worried i was back then for him but i’m confident and glad that he’s feeling a lot better and genuinely happier now. i just always want to see that beautiful smile on his face and i’m so glad he has his members, that they all have each other whenever things get tough.


End file.
